Page 73 of What's in a Kiss?

“What’s the plan?” I say.

“You give me three more outs, then I make you come three times behind our favorite tree.”

I look over his shoulder at what I can only assume is thethick-trunked jacaranda he means. It does look sufficiently secluded, its branches reaching out for the LA River.

“That’s,” I breathe, “very celebratory.”

Walking back to home plate, I’m nervous. I want what Jake just promised.

But my mind is crowded with victories and failures, with Masha playing on this team without me, with my mom making a successful podcast with a more supportive version of her daughter. With what I did to Jake when I sat in his seat at Yankee Stadium.

How can he love the woman I am here?

Thwack.

The sound snaps me back to focus. It’s a deep pop fly, almost to the fence. Our left fielder is running, but she’ll never catch it. It drops, bounces, and the runner is already rounding second before the outfielder hits the relay at short. By then I’m ready, blocking home plate, my glove open, waiting. The ball sails toward me, and I’m poised perfectly to catch it, so I let myself glance quickly at the runner—just as he slams into me and the ball finds my glove.

I close my glove around the ball and extend it toward the runner, and I know I tagged him before I realize I’m also flying backward, landing with a thud on the back of my skull.

••••••

“Olivia? Olivia!”

The voice is muffled, far away. It’s familiar but I’m not sure how.

Then the warm wet tongue I’d know anywhere. GramParsons is kissing my face. I open my eyes and see his kind expression, and for a moment I think I might be home—in my Real Life, with my real dog.

“Olivia.”

I blink my eyes open and see Jake. He looks so worried, then so ecstatic. His eyes are damp with tears.

“Thank God.”

“Jake.”

He lies down next to me, his head against my chest.

“Did we get him out?” I ask.

Jake laughs and wipes his eyes. “Yeah, baby. You clinched the playoffs.”

“Let’s hit the jacaranda.”

“I think maybe you should rest up first.”

I reach up and touch Jake’s face. He looks so emotional. I need to reassure him.

I reach for the neck of his jersey. Now’s the moment. I’m going to kiss him. I’m going to—

“Olivia, do you know what day it is?” the woman asking me the question plays third base on our team. Dr. Lindsay. She takes my hand, the hand that was reaching to pull Jake in for a kiss. “Don’t sit up. How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Five of mine and three of yours—”

Fifteen minutes of questioning and examinations later, I pass the test, but Dr. Lindsay isn’t convinced she should leave Jake and me to our al fresco congress. Apparently I was unconscious for longer than she’s comfortable with.

She pulls Jake aside and I hear the two of them discuss my pupils, about whether or not I should go to the ER. Mostly, I’mwatching Jake’s face as he makes decisions about my care. It’s nurturing to see him taking charge. If I weren’t so tired and dizzy, this would turn me on.

“Olivia, I’m going to keep my phone on tonight, and Jake’s going to stay in touch with me. If anything changes—vomiting or blurry vision—I want you to go to the ER. Hopefully by tomorrow, if you get lots of rest, you’ll only have a headache.”